


Circle Dance

by Chris_Quinton



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:41:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28007883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chris_Quinton/pseuds/Chris_Quinton
Summary: A change of name, a change of place--a change of pace--but his past won’t leave him in peace...
Relationships: Duncan MacLeod/Methos (Highlander)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26





	Circle Dance

**Author's Note:**

> The setting is Avebury, possibly the oldest living village in the UK, situated as it is in and around a stone circle older than Stonehenge. All that sacred space seemed a logical place to plonk down a couple of Immortals, and Methos always thinks the Long Game. Nos. One & Two Cove Cottages do not exist. For the purposes of this story, they are in the North-East quadrant of the circle, in the gap on one side of Green Street, backing onto the field containing the Cove Stones. They are not owned by the National Trust, which - and it's probably A Good Thing - seems to have acquired most of the village and its environs.)

Avebury from the south, by Detmar Owen

He opened the front door and stepped out, carefully blocking the ginger and white cat from across the road, and preventing it from sneaking past him into the cottage. The manoeuvre nearly cost him his balance, but his heavy cane was firmly planted and his dignity remained intact. Yesterday the cat had won through, and it had taken half an hour of cajoling and a quantity of cold chicken (his lunch) before the bloody thing had permitted itself to be lured out.

Taking a deep, refreshing lungful of the clean, honeysuckle- and lavender-scented air, he set off along Green Street towards the pub. He moved with the awkward limping grace of a man who had not long ago been athletic, and had managed to come to terms with his disability. His right leg dragged (some days would be better than others), and the ebony cane was clearly not an affectation.

He'd been in the village for two months now and the locals were beginning to get used to him. It helped that he dressed conventionally if casually, had neatish, shortish hair, and did not blither nonsense about ley lines, crop circles, solstices and druidic celebrations. Most of Avebury's long-term inhabitants had had more than enough of all four over the years, and did not relish the prospect of another resident loony.

There were some qualms when he disclosed he was a writer, but these were quickly dispelled. He wrote articles for highbrow journals on esoteric stuff like 'The Development of Modern Languages', 'The Roots of Russian', and 'The Magyar and the Rom, Past and Present'.

Safe. That was Aidan Whittaker.

Safe. That was how Aidan felt as he waited on the corner for a bus to pass, then hobbled quickly across the main road. Safe in a small community that on one level was so quintessentially English it ought to be preserved under a dome in perpetuity. On another level it was a tourist magnet, and had shown signs of becoming a substitute Mecca for some of the New Age devotees who’d forsaken Stonehenge and Glastonbury. Luckily the larger pilgrimages only happened a few times a year and mostly at the summer solstice.

His new home, Number One, Cove Cottages, had initially smelt faintly of paint and wallpaper paste, but the odour had long since faded. The property and its attached not-quite-mirror-twin were both owned by Omega Investments, a very longstanding London-based company, and the six-hundred-year-old cottage had been thoroughly renovated and furnished prior to his arrival.

The previous occupant had lived there for close to seventy years and had refused to let Omega do much more than essential maintenance. Now it sported a newly thatched roof that brought it up to the standard of its twin and had secondary double-glazing behind its leaded panes, as well as central heating, a telephone (he’d chosen to avoid mobile phones for security reasons), and broadband Internet connection.

All modern conveniences in a one bedroom cottage on the edge of a village set in a wide, shallow valley, with the added convenience of being within the largest stone circle yet discovered, an enclosure of sacred space wide enough to encompass a good part of the village into the bargain. It was an added bonus that the post office with its small but useful general store, and the Red Lion, were contained as well. When it had become empty following Mr. Armitage’s death (of old age), Aidan had seized the opportunity and taken it over.

The pub was a godsend. In the last year it had come under new management and, judging by the comments of its regulars, beer, food and ambience had all improved. Aidan had found no cause to disagree and was doing his subtle best to be taken under their communal cloak. It didn’t hurt that he was both knowledgeable and enthusiastic about cricket, as he'd quietly told the barman a week or so after his arrival. It was only the dodgy right leg that kept him from asking about joining the local cricket club--he used to be a damn good seam bowler and he'd scored a few runs--but that was before the car-crash. Tom had sympathised and introduced him to some fellow enthusiasts, and now Aidan was well on the way to acceptance by part of the community, if not all. Yet.

One step at a time. The elementary first moves toward assimilation: let them come to you. After all, he intended to be living here for quite a while. Years, decades, if he was lucky.

The Red Lion [photo by me]

Aidan made his cautious way into the pub. He hadn't felt like fixing his own lunch and a round of the home-cured thick-sliced ham sandwiches courtesy of Ellie-in-the-kitchen suited his mood. Especially with a pint of Badgers Champion ale.

The place was unusually busy, given it was midday in the middle of the week in late spring, and the increased clientele didn't have the look of coach-passengers brought in to 'do' the village even though the accents he heard were mostly American. Behind the bar, Tom greeted him with a smile and a nod. "The usual?" he asked, already reaching for a glass.

Aidan grinned at him. "Yes, please, and ham sandwiches to go with it, and whatever you're drinking." He perched on a barstool, and leaned closer. "What's the occasion?" he muttered, glancing pointedly at the nearest gaggle of strangers.

"Thanks," Tom said, "I'll have a mineral water. They’re another film crew," he went on with a snicker of amused derision. "Doing 'Spectres of Old England'."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope. The Walkers are already concocting a few new tales to pass along. After all, Florrie and the Barber-Surgeon have been done to death in more ways than one." The names had been run together, though rightly there were four hundred years or more between the two fatalities, as Aidan knew only too well.

Aidan glanced towards the corner where Harry, Pete and John were hemmed in by half a dozen young men and women. The old frauds were taking it in turns to hold forth in what Aidan knew from recent experience was a well-polished routine.

"...Ah, well, back in the Middle Ages," he overheard from Pete, "the folks around here used to have a go at them stones every now and then. Broke some up and used 'em for building the cottages, hauled some away, planted others."

"They'd dig a pit beside a stone," John went on, "heave it over into the hole and bury it. Only sometimes accidents happened, and them stones are bloody big."

"He were what they called a barber-surgeon," Pete continued, "and he'd made enemies. One night he was pushed into the hole and they made the stone fall on him and left him. He were trapped--crushed--and though he screamed somethin' terrible, no one came to dig him out...."

Harry took up the tale: "So when they started to excavate between the Wars, under one of them buried stones they found the skeleton of a man. There were scissors and a lancet, and some silver coins among the bones, so they knew who he was, and when they put the stone back upright the way it should be, that's what the stone was called...."

"Florrie and the Barber-Surgeon." Aidan tuned out the old men's voices and turned back to the bar, grinning. He was well-acquainted with the history of both and far better than any one alive. "That sounds like a music hall act."

"You're not kidding." Tom chuckled and placed a pint of dark nectar in front of him. "I'm damn-sure the Walkers have bored you silly about them, and if they haven't, Ellie has. 'Our Florrie has a fancy for dark haired young men'," he falsettoed in a fair imitation of the pub's heading-towards-elderly cook. 

"Now you come to mention it," Aidan conceded. "Though I haven't actually felt any spectral fingers running through my hair so far. No one really believes this barber-surgeon haunts the stones, surely?"

Tom tapped the side of his nose. "There's some who've heard his screams," he said solemnly.

"By the name of Walker?" They shared a grin and raised a toast to local imagination and enterprise: the Brothers Walker had got themselves plenty of free drinks on the strength of the two supposed hauntings. "How come the barber-surgeon isn't in the local museum?" Aidan queried. "I meant to ask weeks ago, but--you know." He shrugged. It would have been amusing to thumb his nose at the sanctimonious old trouble-maker, even though he was a long time dead.

"Because he got blown to smithereens."

Now that he hadn't known. "Oh? What happened?"

"Hitler happened. He'd been sent to London for some reason, and during the war the museum took a direct hit."

"Poor sod was doomed from beginning to end," Aidan observed and raised his glass again. "To retribution."

"Amen," said Tom and drank as well.

After a few more minutes of desultory conversation, Aidan retired to his usual corner table and to all intents and purposes, sank into a reverie. He kept half an ear on the inventiveness of the Brothers Walker, though. And to his surprise, their creativity somehow had the next tale more or less right. Which made a change from past tellings.

Florence Smith was barmaid and wife to George, an ostler at the inn. She'd had a wandering eye, Aidan recalled, a pair of round heels and a pathological inability to say 'no'. George had finally snapped when he'd caught her behind the bar with her skirts around her waist and her legs around a soldier. Later that night he'd strangled her and hidden her body in the disused well in the cellar, and told everyone she'd buggered off to follow the soldier.

George left the next day on a fast horse he hadn't bought and didn’t own. A couple of days later, when the smell started to seep up from the well, the villagers discovered why....

When the Walkers launched into the account of the spectral coach that careened out of the Manor, drawn by the ubiquitous four headless horses (black, of course), Aidan stopped listening.

###

Ellie-in-the-kitchen brought his sandwiches over and plonked them down on the battered but clean table. She'd been generous with the ham and side salad, and he gave her the gently affectionate smile that had made him one of her favourites.

"Thank you," he said. "You're a star, Ellie."

"Huh," she said. "Got to do something to feed you up. Sure you don't want soup with it? It's cucumber and watercress today."

"No, thanks. This is fine. How long is the film crew staying?"

"Not long, I hope." Ellie scowled across the room, her ire focused on the brotherly trio. "All we need now is that pair of benighted idiots from Bennett's caravan field with their druidic nonsense and bed sheets, and old Marge Compton with her ley-lines, and the circus will be complete."

"Bed sheets?" Aidan gazed at her, sandwich half-way to his mouth.

"Cobbled together to make white dresses--robes, they call 'em. Bloody daft, as far as I'm concerned. How's that Diana Trimm? Do you see much of her?"

The girl next door in Number Two with the six-month-old infant, Aidan remembered. "Haven't a clue," he admitted. "Most of the time I don't even know she's there." The cottage walls were whitewashed chalk and flint and easily two feet thick, after all. "I hear the baby squalling sometimes, and her music, when they're in their garden or when the windows are open, but I only see her when she's walking past with the pushchair."

"Ah." It was a disappointed sound. Clearly Ellie had been hoping for some gossip. "Only I heard she was leaving soon. Got herself a job and a flat in Marlborough."

"Good for her." Aidan smiled. Good for him, too. Although there hadn't been a problem with his young neighbour, he rather liked the idea of an empty house beside him.

Solitude. Peace and quiet. Number One had quickly become a most welcome haven, with its clematis-covered front porch, its spacious if low-ceilinged bedroom and living room. He was a tall man, but not overly so. At six foot and half an inch in his shoes, the door lintels and ceiling beams all brushed his hair when he walked beneath them. It should have made him feel claustrophobic, but didn't.

At the rear of the cottage were the small ground-floor bathroom and kitchen that had been added a mere ninety years ago, but now boasted fully modern appliances and ceilings a good twelve inches higher than the other two rooms. The kitchen door opened into a conservatory that was little more than a tacked-on greenhouse that was just big enough for a cane chair and a side-table, while still leaving a clear path to the back door proper. That in its turn opened onto the garden set between high hedges of hawthorn and dog-roses.

As well as densely planted herbs and flowerbeds and an irregular-shaped area of lawn, it boasted an aged apple tree, a bench-seat beneath a wooden pergola smothered in more honeysuckle, and a small potting shed was almost completely swamped under the enthusiastic merging of a climbing rose (colour as yet unknown) and a blue clematis. It was, like the village, archetypically _English_ and oddly restful.

For a moment Aidan toyed with the idea of getting in touch with the Property Management team and making sure Number Two remained unoccupied. But decided against it. That was too much like active involvement and was something he'd forsworn when he decided to move to the village. And if he occasionally thought regretfully of more distant places (and people), it was an ephemeral twinge and easily ignored.

###

Back at his cottage, stomach comfortably full, Aidan turned on his computer. His thoughts were still circling in the past, so he decided to search on the barber-surgeon. Just to find out exactly what had happened to the old bastard.

What he unearthed was an article by British Archaeology. Dated October 1999, it put paid immediately to the Hitler as Nemesis story, and the Walkers' gruesome tale of a man screaming in horror as the mighty stone toppled towards him to crush him to death. The reality was probably nastier, in Aidan's opinion, though it was too long ago for him to feel a twinge of remorse. He'd had none at the time, after all.

Keiller, the archaeologist who'd made the discovery in 1938, had, presumably because they were the remains of a quasi-medical man, donated the bones to the Royal College of Surgeons in London. The College had certainly taken a direct hit during the Blitz, but the barber-surgeon had not been pulverized then or earlier.

As Aidan knew very well, he'd died trapped beneath the massive sarcen stone, unable to get out. His remains, along with sundry other odds and ends, had been consigned to the vaults of the Natural History Museum, where it had escaped Hitler’s depredations, and had been forgotten about for sixty years. Aidan was rather glad he'd had the foresight to remove the man's distinctive medallion before he'd levered the stone on top of him. The bastard was supposed to have been observing him, not attempting to blackmail him.

The Internet had a fair bit to say about Florrie, all of it variations on the Walkers’ tales, and there were even a few bits on the Manor's ghostly coach.

###

Diana moved out on Tuesday. On Wednesday the Property Management refurbishing team went through the small cottage to either prepare for the next occupant or mothball it.

After two days of frenetic activity, peace descended on Green Street and things returned to normal. The film crew departed, the cat resumed his/her regime of grand larceny with menaces, the newly opening roses added their scents to the honeysuckle and Aidan picked up the threads of his current article. There was a deadline to be met, after all.

###

That deadline was met, but only just. Aidan had immersed himself completely in the complexities of an obscure Macedonian dialect, coming back to the here and now with less than an hour to give the text a final read-through and email to its destination.

With the article safely sent, Aidan was abruptly aware he was both hungry and thirsty. There were emails waiting in his In Box and letters in his Pending tray, but they could carry on waiting. He stood up and stretched the kinks out of his back and shoulders, his palms easily touching the ceiling between the heavy black beams, and then limped into the kitchen. The half a loaf of wholegrain sliced was patched with small spots of green, and while he'd eaten mouldy bread before, and been glad of it, he didn't see why he should have to now.

He glanced at his watch. It was just gone seven o'clock in the evening, the post office and its grocery-selling alter ego would be shut, but there was always the Red Lion. A pint of beer and a hot meal would go down a treat--tension jarred across his nerves and rippled down his spine. His hand closed convulsively over the head of his cane and he turned quickly towards the door. Outside a car door slammed, then silence fell.

Aidan moved swiftly to the living room and peered cautiously out of the window. A silver BMW sat in front of Number Two, Cove Cottages, and the garden gate was open. Then his phone rang.

To his credit, Aidan didn't jump. But the adrenalin surge ratcheted his pulse up a few notches. It was probably his editor, calling to acknowledge the receipt of the article and tear him off a strip for leaving it so close to the wire. Even so, he hesitated a long time before lifting the receiver from its rest.

"Hi," said a too-familiar voice. "I'm next door. Care for a drink at the Lion?"

"You are a dead man." There were no sibilants in the words, but somehow Aidan managed to put them there.

"Uh-huh." There was amusement in the sound. "This is holy ground, remember? And the name is Scott. Graham Scott."

"You're buying, Graham Scott," Aidan snapped. "And that includes a meal. I'm hungry." He slammed the phone down and stamped out of the front door.

Aidan's dramatic exit was marred by his limp and the cat. It hurtled between his legs in a ginger and white blur and was in the cottage before he could prevent it.

"Damn it!" he yelled. "Now look what you did!"

"Me?" Scott's head appeared over the privet hedge. "What did I do?"

"Shut up! What the hell are you doing here?"

Dark brown eyes widened in innocent surprise. "Living. And working. It's a calendar shoot. Seasons in a Landscape--"

"What?" The man was talking pure gibberish as far as Aidan was concerned.

Scott sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. "You obviously need a beer. What's your cat's name?"

"Bugger the cat! Why--"

"Damned odd name for a cat. Or anything else. What's the poor beast done to you to deserve that?"

Aidan took a deep, calming breath. "It is not my cat," he said slowly and clearly. "I do not know its name. I don't want to know its name. I want to know why you're here, and," he went on, voice rising, "who the hell told you where I was?"

Scott's smile showed an unwarranted expanse of white teeth. "Definitely a beer. With a whisky chaser. Come on, we can talk over the meal."

"There's nothing to talk about. I don't know you, Scott, and I don't want to!"

"Yes, you do," Scott said, wounded to the quick if those soulful eyes were anything to go by. "Don't tell me you've forgotten the time we were on that dig in Kazakhstan! You were working on the inscriptions for the University, and I was taking photos for that book on the history of the region--"

"Nice try." He swung out of the gate and headed for the pub. The bloody cat would be dealt with later, evicted so forcefully that when it got back from its impromptu flight into the next county, it would never set paw across his threshold again.

"Hey," said his new neighbour, catching up with him. "What's with the limp?"

"Car crash," Aidan said curtly. "Five months ago."

"Tough." The smooth voice, fluently BBC and sans any kind of accent, let alone a Scottish one, was warm with sympathy. "We better make Kazakhstan this time the year before last, then." There was a pause as they waited for the road to clear. "Nice cane."

"Antique." There was, as they both knew, a high-quality sword blade inside the ebony casing.

"Naturally. A bit like you, then."

"Bastard." He glared at Scott, taking in the trim tan slacks and fitted white polo shirt that defined long muscles and pointed up the man's Mediterranean tan. "Why don't you just bugger off and do your calendar shoot somewhere else? I hear the Orkneys are nice this time of year."

"Nope. Has to be Avebury. The Heart of England," he intoned, hand on breast. "Or is it the Soul? Whatever."

"Bullshit." He hobbled across the road in front of a tractor, leaving Scott standing, and made for the door of the pub. But Scott got there before him, holding it open with a Cheshire cat smile on his face. Aidan snarled wordlessly and stalked to the bar. "Tom, this is Graham Scott, he's just moved into Number Two. He photographs things." The tone of his voice suggested unnatural practices.

"Hi, Tom," Scott said, unabashed by the implied slander. "Aidan's usual, Glenlivet for me and whatever you're having."

"A photographer, Mr. Scott?" Tom asked, drawing Aidan's pint.

"Freelance and on commission. Please, call me Graham, or Gray. I'm going to be here at least a year and I never did like formality."

"Hah!" Aidan snorted and reached past him for the menu. "Better stock up on the fancy single malts, Tom. This one drinks the hard stuff."

"You two know each other?" Tom grinned, putting the pint on the bar and picking up a smaller glass. He stuck it under the optic then lined it up beside the pint. 

"Off and on, over the years." Scott grinned back, placing money on the bar.

"More off than on," Aidan added, before the idiot could launch into some elaborate flight of fancy. "We've been in the same places a couple of times."

"Here's to journalism and its many facets." And Scott lifted his whisky in a salute.

"Well, it's a small world," the barman said cheerfully.

"You can say that again," Aidan muttered in disgust. "Too bloody small. I'll have the salmon starter, the sixteen ounce rump steak done rare with all the trimmings and Annie's red wine sauce, and her orange and Cointreau sorbet for dessert."

"You're pushing the boat out," Tom chuckled.

"Yes," Aidan said. "He's paying."

He stumped over to his corner and sat down, stretching out his right leg and massaging his knee. It was aching a bit. The lift he wore in his shoe tended to cause that. Fortunately, the discomfort was fleeting. Over by the bar, Scott was leaning both elbows on the polished wood, chatting companionably with Tom. His dark, slightly too long hair was curling on his collar and over his forehead, and Aidan sneered. What was it, the Windswept Poet look? Or the Rakish But Soulful Adventurer? Either way, there was no one in the village who'd be dazzled by it. And what the hell were they talking about? If Scott was regaling the barman with wild and improbable tales, he was certainly a dead man. In fact, he, Aidan, would take his head off very, very slowly with a blunt hacksaw.

It had been so peaceful for the last two months....

###

The evening went from bad to worse. Annie-in-the-kitchen brought the starters--Scott had ordered the same as him--and the bastard flirted outrageously with her. If Annie hadn't responded with her usual amused cynicism, Aidan would have taken his fork and stuck it in Scott's neck. Even so, it was clear by the second course that the foolish old biddy approved of the interloper.

"At last someone's got you eating a decent-sized meal," she commented as she plonked the platter of steak in front of him. "I hope he keeps it up. It'll do you and our profits good."

"Glad to be of service." Scott beamed at her and leaned across to wink at Aidan. "The food wasn't as good in Kazakhstan, was it?"

Aidan stitched a smile on his face. "I remember a mule who thought it was okay. The one who took a bite out of your arse." That was a threat and a warning, if the cretin was smart enough to cotton on.

"Hell, yes!" Scott laughed. "Annie, I couldn't sit down for a month. I think I've still got the scar. Want to see?" He stood up and started to undo his belt.

"No, thanks," she said, snickering. "I prefer my rump steaks ready for grilling. You're a bad man, Graham Scott." Which, coming from her, was an accolade.

###

By the time they'd finished eating, the regulars were beginning to fill up the bar and Aidan was given a brief reprieve by the Walker brothers. They homed in on the newcomer and gave him the usual saga of the local legends until Aidan, at least, was glassy-eyed with boredom. But then Scott returned the favour with a series of wild tales from the supposed archaeological dig in bloody Kazakhstan that had everyone in the pub laughing. Everyone except Aidan.

That dig was a myth. Had to be. He was pretty certain Scott hadn't been in the place over the last century. He sure as hell hadn't. But the stories were uncomfortably familiar. Some were ones he'd spun for a certain barman in Seacouver and Paris, while others were incidents from their long lives. Only the names, dates and settings had been changed.

"What happened about that book you were supposed to be taking the photos for?" he asked casually, interrupting a racy anecdote about a couple of archaeologists and a goat that struck a little too close to home. "I never did find it on Amazon."

"The deal fell through." Scott's expression was mournful but there was a malicious delight in his eyes. "Poor old Basil went swimming off the Barrier Reef and met a Great White."

"Shame. It would have been quite a book. All that hard work you put in--wasted. Not to mention the danger to life and limb," he added pointedly.

"Yeah." Scott heaved a sigh. "Kazakhstan isn't the safest place on the planet. But I do miss the good old days sometimes...."

"So here you are in the middle of the English countryside, taking pretty piccies for calendars." Aidan couldn't resist the jibe. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

"No skin off my nose," Scott said easily. "I was paid for my time and trouble, so it's still money in the bank, though the kudos would have been nice. Did I ever tell you about that temple in South America I was photoing when I got captured by natives?"

Aidan groaned and buried his face in his arms.

It was gone ten by the time he admitted a temporary defeat and left Scott to it. When he opened his front door the bloody cat exited as fast as it had entered and his first step into the living room told him three things.

One: the infernal animal was an un-neutered tom.

Two: it had sprayed up the back of the couch.

Three: war had now been declared on a second front.

That Bloody Cat [photo from Pixabay.com]

No matter what Aidan did, what patented cleaning agent he used, the smell lingered. By morning it had permeated the whole cottage and by midday he'd phoned the Property Management Department with an order to replace the damned couch as soon as they could, preferably immediately, and fumigate the place while they were at it. He'd then retreated to the Red Lion and intended to take up residence there until his home was liveable in again.

It didn't help that Scott found the whole sorry mess laughable. So much so that by the time Aidan had finished the telling of it, the man was face-down on the bar practically crying with mirth.

"Damned if I can see what's so funny!" he snapped. "With any luck the scrawny fiend will move in on you next!"

"Not a chance," Scott wheezed. "It likes you. It was only scent-marking its territory--that's what toms do."

"I'll give it 'tom'! I'll castrate it with my bloody boot, then we'll see how much scent-marking it can do! And if you don't stop howling like a fucking hyena, you'll be next! And remember. They. Don't. Grow. Back!" 

"A ginger and white job, is it?" Tom asked over the renewed paroxysms of laughter beside him. "That'll probably be Mrs. Hamilton's Fluffy."

"Fluffy...." Aidan repeated, mildly stunned. Scott fell off his stool.

Luckily, Property Management performed wonders in a matter of hours, and Aidan reclaimed his home just before midnight.

Immediately Aidan switched on his computer and carried out his usual hack-and-enter, just to check on the status quo and, more importantly, that Aidan Whittaker and Avebury hadn't cropped up in the Watchers’ bulletins. It was something he did at irregular intervals, but Scott's totally unexpected arrival made it a matter of urgency this time.

To Aidan’s relief he wasn't mentioned. But neither was Scott's previous name (he'd dropped out of circulation some years ago), or the man's current ID. Aidan's relief became unease, but there was nothing he could do about it short of violence, and he didn't particularly want to go that far. He'd find another way. He was good at that.

###

The following morning saw the next round with That Bloody Cat and Aidan won it by default. He left the house early and via the back door. The animal was lurking on the other side of the road as he limped past his gate and he flipped it the good old 'V' sign. It glared, sat down and pointedly washed its well-endowed genitals.

"Yes," he told it. "You take care of 'em. Push your luck and you can kiss 'em goodbye."

It was a beautiful morning, made sweeter by his victory. The air was fresh and clean and fragrant in his nostrils. Later in the year the unavoidable hint of sheep wouldn't be masked by the all-pervasive honeysuckle, but he could live with that. There were roses and lavenders, dianthuses and other scented flora that had been planted with abundance in most of the gardens.

All in all, Aidan was content, especially as his new neighbour was nowhere in evidence, apart from the usual frisson. Still comatose with any luck, he mused, though he remembered from past experience that Scott was an irritatingly _morning_ person. Of course, he wasn't Graham Scott then, but Aidan doubted a change of name would also change that characteristic. His hadn't, after all, even if he'd given a contrary impression for years.

He liked mornings. Not to the extent that Scott did. Not for him the five mile runs, the intensive workouts. Oh, no. But he was far from being the shambling zombie he occasionally portrayed. Lulling people into a false sense of security was always a good thing, and he had it down to a fine art.

Aidan reached the post office-cum-general store dead on eight-thirty, just as Lucy was opening up for customers. She'd been there since six, as she was every morning, loading up the paper-rounds for the delivery teams.

She greeted him with her usual smile and they chatted comfortably while Aidan selected bread, milk, assorted fresh fruit and vegetables, eggs and a couple of packets of his favourite biscuits. As an after-thought he added a packet of best back rashers, acknowledging a sudden craving for a bacon sandwich.

"That friend of yours," Lucy said as she began to ring up his purchases. "Is he--all right?" The slight hesitation implied mental well-being rather than physical.

"If you mean Scott, he's more of an acquaintance. And you need to define 'all right'." He shrugged. "He's harmless, more or less. Why?"

"Saw him crawling round the Cove first thing this morning," she said.

Aidan's mind supplied the image of the two huge sarcen stones that stood at the top of the field behind the cottages, and Scott on all fours.... No, that couldn't be right. "Crawling?"

"On hands and knees. The sheep were fascinated."

Aidan gave a hoot of laughter. "I'll bet!" he snickered. "He's a professional photographer," he went on, grinning. "He was probably taking shots of them."

"Oh. Arty-farty stuff. Maybe I could get him to do Janey's wedding next month. She still hasn't managed to find anyone at a price she can afford. Is he any good?"

"I've no idea," he said, "but it'll do no harm to ask."

"That's true. Um, is he married, do you know?"

"Not at the moment. The last I heard he was with a girlfriend in France. But she's always jetting around the world, and so's he."

"Kazakhstan." She nodded knowledgably. The gossip grapevine was flourishing in Avebury. "That must have been so exciting."

"Don't believe everything he says," Aidan said. "He's half-Irish," he invented happily, "and he didn't so much kiss the Blarney Stone, he bloody-well deep-throated it."

Lucy dissolved into giggles. "Mr. Whittaker," she managed. "You're awful!"

"Yes," he said, paying his bill. "I am."

The Cove at Avebury [photo by me]

Aidan managed to forget both neighbour and cat for some hours, drawn in by the siren call of research, until a burning need for caffeine dug him out of the medieval Persian text.

Wandering back from the kitchen, a strange sound finally caught his attention. It had been there for a while, he realised: a rhythmic, sliding, chinking kind of sound, vaguely familiar and coming now from the front of the cottage. He put down his coffee and peered through the curtains.

That Bloody Cat was tightrope-walking on his fence. And flurries of privet clippings were falling like green snow.

Aidan came out of his door like a racehorse from a starting gate, slamming it shut behind him before the furred daemon could dodge past him. Except the aforesaid daemon didn't bother. It was watching the hedge with fierce concentration, ears and whiskers pointing forward, poised and waiting for prey to come hurtling out of the dense foliage.

Graham Scott, obviously balancing precariously on something, was putting the finishing touches to a now neatly clipped privet barrier, somewhat lower than it had been before its enforced haircut.

"What the hell are you doing?" Aidan demanded, hands on hips.

"Smartening up our frontage," Scott said brightly, brandishing the hedge-clippers. "I noticed it was looking a bit scruffy. Can't have that, can we?"

Briefly Aidan wondered how long it would take to remove Scott's head with those clippers, but decided the resulting light show would draw too much attention. "There was nothing wrong with the hedge," he snapped. "You do realise you're damaging Omega's property, don't you? They could evict you for this," he added, relishing the thought.

"Oh, come off it," Scott said, grinning infuriatingly. "You own Omega, for God's sake, and years ago you said to me, _'Mi casa es tu casa.'_ Remember?"

"That was then and in a different country. This is now."

"Blah," Scott said, his grin becoming what Aidan could only describe as affectionate, "blah, blah, blah. I'm about to fix myself some lunch. Care to join me? Spanish omelette and salad?"

"Do you really think I can be bribed?" Aidan sneered, ignoring the interested rumble from his stomach.

"By food? Every time. I've got some bottles of Newcastle Brown and Theakstons Old Peculiar chilling." 

"Bugger off, Scott!"

"Okay. Come round in half an hour. See you."

"Wait a minute. How do you know I own Omega? Who told you? Or can I guess? Oh, he is going to pay for--"

"Give me some credit," Scott retorted. "I knew damn-well you wouldn't come to stay long-term in a place without researching it back to the Stone Age, so I did some digging of my own. You bought the cottages in the seventeen hundreds and by the time you started Omega fifty years later, you had a dozen properties for rent, six of which were on holy ground. And," he went on over Aidan's snarl of fury, "as far as I know, the Society doesn't know where either of us are. Yet," he added with a philosophical shrug, then, "Lunch. Half an hour. Don't be late. You can't keep an omelette waiting."

###

There was, of course, no way Aidan was going to take up Scott's invitation. No way in hell. He had eggs, bacon, mushrooms, and all the other odds and ends necessary for an omelette of any nationality that took his fancy. And he had half a dozen bottles of Newcastle Brown as well.

Admittedly he hadn't found out what the man was doing in Avebury, other than annoying him. He certainly didn't buy that photography story. Calendar shoot! Hah!

Aidan's determination lasted until the savoury aroma wafted out of Scott's kitchen window and in through his. It drew him into his back garden, fighting the impulse all the way, and there he found that Scott had mutilated the dividing hedge between their respective gardens as well. It was still too high to look over, but was now a neatly trimmed barrier. Even his side had been attacked. Scott must have walked all the way round--but no, he hadn't. He'd found another way in. The vandalising of the hawthorn and re-routing of the roses had revealed that close to the cottages was a tall, narrow wrought-iron gate of uncertain vintage beneath a now shapely arch of greenery. The hinges were glossy with fresh oil.

Vandalism and trespass. Imminent eviction bloomed on Aidan's horizon in a happy rosy glow.

"You timed it just right," Scott called. "Come on through, the omelette's on your plate."

Meal first, Aidan decided, then he'd phone Property Management and have the bastard thrown out on his ear.

###

It had been years since Aidan had sat down with Scott and enjoyed the man's cooking. Naturally, it didn't mean he enjoyed Scott's company, and he waited for the opportunity to point that out. He wasn't given one. They ate in the comfortably furnished living room, and in between ingesting an excellent omelette complete with chunky salad, warm focaccia bread and good beer to wash it down, Aidan found himself discussing the village's unusual setting.

That inevitably led on to photography and reminded Aidan of Lucy's concerns. He started to chuckle and Scott's eyebrows went up.

"Come on," he said. "Share the joke."

"It's no joke." Aidan managed to straighten his face to a scowl. "It's potentially very serious. Not to say criminal."

"It is?"

"Exactly what were you doing on your hands and knees in a field of sheep? The locals do not take kindly to that kind of thing, even if the sheep do."

"And you know about the sheep's preferences because?" Scott's grin was salacious. "I was taking shots of the Cove."

"Arty-farty stuff," Aidan drawled, leaning back in his chair. "Your reputation is already tarnished, you know. And in only twenty-four hours. Not bad going, even for you."

"Arty-farty?" Scott drew himself up in mock indignation. "I'll have you know I'm damn-good at what I do. Art, yes. The fart I'll leave to you."

"Is taking pictures art within the meaning of the word? Art is creating something. Photography is freezing a moment of time."

"And the art is knowing what needs to be frozen, and when and how to freeze it," Scott countered. "Yes, photography is as much an art-form as using paints or a sculptor's tools, and I've had three of the best teachers. Linda Plager, Gregor Powers and Tessa." He grabbed a couple of books from the shelves behind him, pushed Aidan's plate to one side and opened them under his nose. "Look at these, and if you deny they're art, I'll shove 'em up your nearest orifice. Greg's 'Volcanoes' and Linda's 'Streets in the Rain'. Look at the lighting, the composition, the--"

"Okay!" he snapped, pushing the books back at his host. " _They're_ artists. Are you? I don't remember seeing the name of Graham Scott attached to any world-shaking photo."

"I do okay." He was grinning that maddening smirk that had Aidan's hands clenching on his knife and fork as if the cutlery were twinned daggers hungry for combat. "Have a look." He pounced on a laptop and his fingers flew over the keys. "I got these with a digital," he went on. "But I mostly use a 35mm. The fancy lenses and filters can't be beaten for serious work, though sometimes I get lucky with the other one."

Aidan stared at the screen. It was set to slide-show mode and four pictures displayed automatically, one after the other.

A vast grey shape reared against a sky painted in dawn-colours of lemon, soft whites and shades of greyed lavender. The harshness of the sarcen stone was shown in minute detail, every pit and hollow, every shadow etched sharp. The photographer must have been lying on his back for that one.

Lichen-shapes, black, white and pale yellow, made abstract designs on another stone that had a similar effect as the Rorschach inkblots. Aidan had to blink to stop himself from seeing things that weren't there.

A close-up of a sheep's eye, the almost alien shape of the slot-pupil strangely disturbing--as was the reflection of the standing stones in its blackness.

A close-up of a raven perched on the top of a sarcen. The bird glowed in the early morning sunlight and its black feathers had the sheen of a dark rainbow. It was peering down with its head cocked to one side as if it was watching a potential snack. There was something very knowing about that cant and the beady glittering eye that was surely focussed on the camera. Something very close to menacing. This was, after all, a carrion eater....

"Not bad, I suppose," he said grudgingly.

"Yes," Scott agreed. "Not bad, but I've done better."

"The Kazakhstan shots?" Aidan didn't bother to hold back his snicker.

"Yes, but they're not all wasted. I took a lot along the Silk Road, and there's this author and his publisher negotiating for them."

"Huh," Aidan said, and reached for his beer.

He didn't stay long after that. Scott was packing cameras and packets of film into a backpack and dropping unsubtle hints about an appointment to meet the farmer who had the East Kennet long barrow in one of his fields. For a brief moment Aidan expected a casual offer to go with him, but it didn't come. Instead Scott offered him a smile and a folded piece of paper with an off-hand 'see you around'.

It was, Aidan told himself as he went back through the new-found gate, a relief, even though he had a more or less polite refusal waiting to be said. He shoved the slip of paper into his pocket and started to open his back door. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of what might have been a flash of ginger and white in the bushes. It was gone almost immediately and he scowled. Was that a solid sighting or the figment of an overly suspicious mind?

###

Aidan didn't exactly forget about the slip of paper Scott had given him. He just added it to the small pile of letters sitting in the Pending tray and made himself a mug of coffee. Then he sat down at his computer, mind already focusing in on the Persian text he'd been dragged away from before lunch. Or rather he tried to focus. For some reason it had lost its appeal.

Aidan glanced at the time readout on the corner of the screen and was surprised to see it was nearly two-thirty. He'd spent close to three hours next door, though it hadn't felt like it at the time.

Admittedly, the omelette had been up to Scott's usual standard, and they had chatted sporadically in easy, companionable drifts between necessary silences. In an unspoken accord they hadn’t talked of their recent past. That belonged to other names, other places, even though that rare undemanding camaraderie, the arguments and laughter were always there in Aidan's memory:. Shared danger, too, guarding each other's backs on more than one occasion.

Back then, he'd tried and failed to convince the man to change his name, let alone accept the low-to-the-point-of-invisibility lifestyle that would keep his head on his shoulders. Then the inevitable had happened and right in the vanguard of those memories was the indelible recollection of mutual hurt and anger too great to be expressed in anything other than violence. Except the violence had not quite happened between them. Over a period of time their friendship had gradually, tentatively, repaired itself, and for a while it was almost the way it had been before. If they didn't pick at the healing scabs. But the ever-present danger that dogged their heels had come far too close for comfort, and after a civilised parting of the ways, they'd walked off in different directions.

Aidan had known where he wanted--needed--to be, and he had waited patiently for this haven of Avebury to be available to him again. While he waited, Aidan Whittaker had been born, carefully forging a respected niche in certain circles of Academia. He'd even created a physical likeness, thanks to the devious wonders of computers and their programmes.

As far as his agent, publisher and readers were concerned, the reclusive Aidan Whittaker bore a certain resemblance to one Jean-Luc Picard.... Of course, passport and driving licence showed a different face, but it was highly unlikely that any interested parties would dig that deep. Even the Society of Perennial Voyeurs would have no reason to investigate further, should they stumble across his published works and picture.

Just when Aidan thought that all was right in his world and he was safely ensconced in a niche that would last him for years if he was careful to fake the aging process, the past rose up to bite him hard on the arse. The current incarnation of Graham Scott had invaded his life, demonstrating that miracles do happen and that the most obdurate of Scots had finally seen a glimmering of sense and become a Scott. But no matter what the man called himself, he was a menace.

Magnets and iron filings had nothing on him where trouble was concerned. A destructive cycle seemed to follow him around and Aidan didn’t want to be drawn into it again. Yet he had to admit to himself that he trusted Graham Scott in whatever guise the man fashioned for himself, and that was a rare occurrence in Aidan's life.

He liked the quiet day to day existence. He'd lived a very long time and was totally and devoutly committed to at least doubling his current age, and if that meant abjuring the companionship of his own kind, then so be it. No matter the friendliness they had once shared, right now Scott was an irritating and unwelcome presence in Aidan's corner of the world.

Which did not at all explain why he brought up Google and typed in 'Graham Scott photographer'.

Surprisingly, there were a couple of entries that matched the man: one a travel book for which he'd supplied the illustrations, the other a semi-autobiographical by a war correspondent--'Arenas of Conflict'--and an article that not only reviewed the latter, but praised the photographer's skill and predicted a bright future for him. But unfortunately none of the so-lauded pictures were shown.

But the man undoubtedly had talent; the few photos Aidan had been shown proved that. Not that Aidan would ever admit it to Scott's face. A week spent naked in a pit of vipers would be preferable.

Once more he turned his mind to Persia, and this time the lure of the past drew him in.

###

"Did you know," said a familiar voice outside Aidan's living room window. It was ajar just enough to let in scented summer air, but not four-legged livestock, "that there are some countries that are certifiably, unrepentantly insane to a man?" Aidan glared over his shoulder, but no one was leaning in, elbows on sill, to pester him. Nor could he see the speaker. "Celts, on the whole, are, if you'll excuse the expression, barking mad, but the Hungarians take a lot of beating. They have real style. You have the look of a Magyar to me. A Magyar mog." Aidan rolled his eyes. Scott was talking to That Bloody Cat. "I read that article he did on the language, but there was one very interesting feature he left out."

Aidan pushed the window open and stuck his head and shoulders out. Clematis tangled in his hair, but he ignored it. "What feature?" he demanded.

Scott, who had been crouching to have an eyeball to eyeball conversation with the cat sitting on the fence, looked up and grinned. "That their profanity shows a strong penile fixation."

"I knew that!" he snapped. "If I was writing for one of the more lurid tabloid newspapers I'd've made it the central thread! As it is, I write my articles for people whose minds are a little higher than their dicks!"

"It is said," Scott went on, grin unabashed, "that your average Hungarian can enter a revolving door behind you and leave it in front. Not many people know that."

"Not many would want to! Don't tell me! Hungary has become the new Kazakhstan, right?"

"Has it?" An alarmingly innocent expression crossed Scott's suntanned face.

Aidan ignored it. "Are you fraternising with That Bloody Cat?" It was a rhetorical question. Of course the fool was. "Don't encourage it, for God's sake! It's probably got fleas," he added hopefully as the beast rubbed its cheek against Scott's arm. "Anyhow, what do you know about the Hungarian language? Nothing!"

"Right, but I do have a laptop and a search engine. The Alternative Dictionaries site is a revelation, believe me."

"You," Aidan said forcefully, "are no better than That Bloody Cat. Bugger off, both of you." He shut the window with a snap and stamped back to his computer. Even with the window closed, he could hear Scott's laughter.

###

For several days there was no sign of Aidan's neighbour. The silver BMW was also conspicuous by its absence and he began to hope that he was going to be left in peace.

The cat, though, spent its days perched on his front fence, so he continued to use his back door for comings and goings, smugly pleased that the ginger and white terrorist (now called TBC in his head) hadn't cottoned on to the subterfuge. Which just went to show how false was the assumption of feline intelligence.

However, Scott continued to be an irritant, even in his non-appearance. The staff and regulars at the Red Lion wanted to know where the man was and when would he be back. Ellie-in-the-kitchen became almost maudlin, to Aidan's intense disgust. How the hell could the bloody man have got his feet so firmly under the metaphorical tables of Avebury so very quickly? Surely the entire village hadn't fallen under the spell of his superficial charm?

###

On the third day, Aidan realised TBC wasn't so much haunting his frontage as using his fence as a vantage point to watch his absent neighbour's door.

Damn it, even his arch-enemy had been seduced!

To test his theory, Aidan opened his front door and walked out, leaving it standing wide behind him. The cat didn't move, didn't even flick an ear in his direction. He limped to the gate. Finally the cat reacted. It gave him a glare that Medusa would have envied and carried on with its vigil.

Aiden didn't know whether to rejoice or to feel slighted.

###

By the fourth day Aidan's reprieve was shown to have been temporary. Lulled into a false sense of security and with an urgent need for more chocolate biscuits, he opened the front door and stepped over the threshold. He was a little slow reaching back to close it behind him and a streak of bi-coloured fur was all the warning he got.

"Damn you!" he bellowed, cane thrusting like a sword to bar the way, but the cat was far more swift than any human opponent.

For ten minutes he forgot he was supposed to be lame and chased the unholy daemon around his living room. Papers flew like over-sized confetti, books fell and his computer screen suddenly displayed rows of consonants, numbers and vowels as flying feline paws tap-danced across the keyboard. His mug and its contents ended up on the floor, spreading a brown stain on the cream carpet.

Finally, having caused as much devastation as a horde of carousing Visigoths, the cat hurtled out of the door and he slammed it shut in its wake. Leaning against the frame to catch his breath, Aidan surveyed the damage.

The living room was in chaos. He gazed around, stunned. It was almost unbelievable how much havoc one small mammal could cause. Ice grew in his heart and he jerked the door open. The cat was watching Number Two as if nothing had happened.

"You are dead!" he yelled. "I will rip off your mangy fur with my teeth and nail you up by your boll--"

"Really, Mr. Whittaker!" Mrs. Hamilton hurried across the road, her champagne-rinsed hair frizzing about her head. She scooped the daemon into her arms and it slouched there, smirking at him. "You shouldn't shout at poor Fluffy! He's only sitting on your fence, for heaven's sake! He used to live in Number One until Mr. Armitage died!" Her wounded gaze did not pierce his conscience.

"The little monster lives with you now," he said coldly. "If it wants a permanent residence back here, I'll give it one--six feet down!"

"Oh! Mr. Whittaker!" She drew herself up, five-foot-two of outraged matronly pensioner, and met him glare for glare. "Fluffy--"

"--is a fiend from the Ninth Circle of Hades!" he hissed. "Mephistopheles would be a better name! It has wrecked my home, my research, my computer--"

"He's only a cat! Who can't understand why he isn't living in there with poor Mr. Armitage anymore! He wants to come home!"

"Over its own dead body!" And Aidan firmly shut the door on her. To be exact, he slammed it so hard it bounced on its hinges.

By the time he'd restored order and retrieved his on-screen work, Aidan had cooled down. He was uncomfortably aware that he had effectively destroyed any standing he'd gained in the community. By now Mrs. Hamilton would have told the tale, suitably embroidered, to her cronies, who would in turn have scattered it broadcast.

Aidan would have to apologise to the woman. The thought was galling. She didn't know what kind of Machiavellian creature she was harbouring and probably would not comprehend if he explained it in words of one syllable, with diagrams.

Tomorrow. He'd deal with it then. Right now, slow and bloody felinicide was the only option he was prepared to consider as far as the cat was concerned.

Aidan's worst fears were realised when he resumed his journey to the shop. Lucy gave him a cold stare and did not offer her usual friendly greeting. She served him with terrifying politeness and turned her back as soon as she handed him his change.

That Bloody Cat had won another round.

###

Aidan's cup of tribulations overflowed the next morning. He awoke to the grate of awareness and a serenade of sorts. The BMW was parked outside, all the windows of Number Two were open and a tenor voice was warbling more or less tunefully to an old David Bowie track.

Aidan groaned and clutched double handfuls of hair. It was a plot. Had to be. Scott was in league with That Bloody Cat to drive him from the safe confines of this sacred enclosure so he could be Challenged.

It might almost be worth the risk....

No. Aidan gave himself a mental kick. He was made of sterner stuff than that. He hadn't lived for centuries to be defeated now by the machinations of a Highland maniac and a four-legged bag of fur and evil intent.

He had to strike back, or at least attempt to regain some status. If he could keep Ellie-in-the-kitchen onside, that would counteract some of the damage caused. So at twelve-thirty he set out, limping up Green Street toward the pub.

There was no sign of his bête noire, but as Aidan passed Number Four, the door opened and Mrs. Hamilton rushed out. He braced himself for a fresh torrent of censure, vowing silently that he would be humble and penitent, and waited for the first broadside.

But she grabbed his free hand and patted it.

"Don't worry," she said soothingly. "I quite understand, you poor dear, and it was a beautiful gesture, but you shouldn't have bothered. I'm sure they'll write again, soon."

"What?" he began, but she was already bustling back inside.

Aidan shrugged and carried on to the Red Lion with a puzzled frown.

His reception in the pub was…odd. The regulars greeted him with overdone hearty cheerfulness, not quite meeting his eyes. Ellie stuck her head out of the kitchen and raked him up and down with a critical gaze.

"You don't look too chipper, that's for sure," she said accusingly. "You staying for lunch?"

"Yes. Ham sandw--"

"Steak and mushroom pie," she interrupted, "peas, broccoli and creamed potatoes. You need a decent meal inside you."

"No, I--" But the kitchen door was already shut.

"No use arguing with her," Tom said, supplying his pint without being asked. "Pie's got Guinness gravy in it."

"Great, but--"

"It's okay. We all understand," Tom said earnestly, eyes sliding away from Aidan's. "Gray explained."

" _What?_ " he whispered. Tom flushed.

"About your leg and the pain. And having the op cancelled again. Bloody National Health--"

The rest of the man's words were drowned out by the pounding of rage-driven blood in Aidan's ears. He clutched the bar in a white-knuckled grip to prevent himself from wrapping his hands around Tom's neck in lieu of Scott's. It took a few deep breaths before he could master his fury. Not that Tom would notice. He was looking anywhere but Aidan's face.

"Right," Aidan said, forcing calm into his voice. "Fine. I'll just go and sit down, then."

The uncomfortable mental scrape gave him a brief warning. He had barely settled into his usual place when Scott strolled in. He gave Aidan a fleeting grin, bought a pint from Tom and after a brief conversation with the barman, he drifted over.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked.

"Yes, I do mind. Bugger off, Scott."

"Thanks." He sat down, stretched his long legs under the table. "You really bollixed it up, didn't you?" he went on happily. "But Mrs. H is off your back. You owe me for a bunch of roses and an assortment of gourmet cat-food."

It was a moment before Aidan could speak. Then, "You read that Alternative Hungarian site? Good. Try this one for size— _lófasz a seggedbe_! "

Scott laughed, the sound rich and mellow. His eyes were peat-dark and brimming with delight. "So that's how it's pronounced," he said. "I was wondering."

Aidan opened his mouth to deliver a scathing and scatological answer, but Ellie arrived with a platter of food. To his startled gaze it looked as if she had piled on double portions of everything.

"I can't eat all this," he protested.

"You can and you will." Ellie slapped down the knife and fork and napkin. "I've been talking to that Lucy. Chocolate biscuits and coffee, with the odd egg and bit of bacon thrown in for good measure, do not make a proper diet. You don't just need looking after, you need a bloody keeper!" She stalked away, throwing a grim, "There's peach cobbler for dessert," over her shoulder.

Scott stuck his finger in the gravy oozing from the pie and sucked it clean. "Mmm," he purred, eyes closed in lascivious bliss. It was a surprisingly erotic sight and Aidan had to look away, taken by surprise by his body’s response. "That tastes fantastic. Whatever you can't eat, I'll finish up for you."

"Bugger off!" Aidan snapped and started eating.

He cleared the plate, but it was a close run thing. Only because he was too stubborn to let Scott have the leftovers did he manage it. But he drew the line at the peach cobbler. There was a short battle of wills between him and Ellie over that, but they compromised on the coffee and she took the dish away before Scott could acquire it.

Feeling too full to start a fight, Aidan could still muster up some acid. "I thought it was too good to be true," he drawled, sipping his coffee. "The peace and quiet has been wonderful these last few days. But you came back."

"Had to visit my agent," Scott said with an insouciant shrug. "Then I hopped over to Paris to visit a few old friends."

Aidan nearly choked. "You didn't tell anyone where I was!"

"No, of course not. It's no business of anyone if you want to bury yourself in rural Wiltshire," Scott added with a smile. "I can think of a lot worse places to become a hermit."

"So go and find them," Aidan snarled. "And take photographs."

Scott sniggered and drained his almost full glass of beer in a series of long swallows. Aidan studied his neck, the smooth line of tendons, the movement of his Adam's apple, and wistfully identified where the major blood vessels were closest to the surface. It was a pity Ellie had carried away cutlery as well as platter.

"I'm off," Scott said cheerfully. "Have to see a man about a horse." And he left to a chorus of farewells from the rest of the customers.

The BMW was gone when Aidan limped back to Number One. That Bloody Cat wasn't, though. It was perched on its usual place and sneered at him as he passed it. He swung the gate shut with enough force to rock the fence.

In the manner of all felines, the cat turned its fall into a controlled descent and stalked away, its tail upright and twitching in the 'I meant to do that' position.

Hugging the small victory, Aidan went back to his computer and the closing paragraphs of his article on medieval Persian.

Cottages at Avebury [photo by me]

Scott wasn't back the next morning, or he'd returned and disappeared again. At a loose end now the article was finished and sent off, Aidan decided that a little gardening would be soothing for his abraded nerves. He wandered out into the back garden with a mug of coffee in one hand and a trowel in the other. The grass was over-long, the weeds in the flowerbeds were taller than the plants, and only the Scott-cropped hedge showed any sign of care.

"Damn," Aidan said aloud and abandoned coffee and trowel on the seat beneath the pergola. He fought his way past the climbing rose and the clematis to investigate the potting shed, rediscovering that roses have determined thorns. Sure enough there was a lawn mower in there. An old-fashioned device that used muscle power rather than electricity. He checked the blades for sharpness, gave it a dousing of oil from the can on the workbench, and hauled it outside.

The lawn wasn't that large, but the effort of pushing the mower through the luxuriant grass used muscles he'd forgotten he had. And the day was becoming progressively hotter. Aidan took off his shirt and used it to mop the sweat from his face, then collapsed on the seat. Even cold, his coffee was better than nothing, and he drank it, eyes closed, breathing in the lush potency of fresh-mown grass and the scent of the flowers. Birds sang, insects hummed, cats meowed-- Aidan opened his eyes.

That Bloody Cat was sitting in the middle of his lawn, staring at him with eyes the colour of polished jade. Or the fires of Hell, depending on your perspective.

"Bugger off!" Aidan snapped. It struck him that he was saying those two words rather a lot lately. He'd have to put his mind to coming up with some alternatives. "I've got a trowel, and I know how to use it. So if you want a grave six feet deep...." The cat lifted a paw, licked it and swiped behind its ear. Then hiked up a back leg and began to wash its genitals. "What's the matter? Did you get fed up waiting for your soul-mate?" he went on. "He's probably off taking snap-shots of horses." 

Or maybe meeting someone with sharp shiny blades.

The thought chilled him and Aidan sat a little straighter. Okay, he didn't want the man in his immediate vicinity, but he certainly didn't want him gone from the world. It would be a dull planet indeed without a Graham Scott on it, in whatever guise he chose to give himself. Just as Aidan intended to prolong his own life as long as inhumanly possible, he'd rather like to know that Scott was doing the same. Providing it was somewhere else.

###

Once the idea had taken hold, Aidan could not shake it loose. Once again he hacked into a certain database with the skill of a surgeon performing micro-surgery, but there were no new reports on Scott's previous identity. In fact nothing had changed since his last information sweep on absent friends and enemies. That one particular file hadn't been updated in over three years, though the last entry still recorded the rumour that he'd gone to ground in a Nepalese monastery, location unknown.

There was no mention of Scott's current name, and, more importantly, no account of any heads lost in the UK. Admittedly, Europe was easily and quickly reached these days, but even so, Aidan breathed a little easier. Until the fine day broke up in an evening thunderstorm, and he leaned out of his bedroom window getting soaking wet and watched for any lightning bolts that struck up from the ground.

###

Over the next few days the emptiness of Number Two that had recently seemed a benison, became something of an ache. He was not worried about the man. Scott was big enough and old enough to look after himself, and the gods knew he had the skill to do it as well. It occurred to Aidan that perhaps he was missing the verbal fencing, the casual companionship and Scott's easy laughter. He hammered the thought into oblivion before it could take root.

The Red Lion Regulars continued to treat him with the embarrassed consideration that the average hale and hearty Englishman usually gave to the physically damaged, and it made him increasingly reluctant to go to the pub. They hadn't been as bad as this when he'd first arrived in the village, and Aidan guessed the difference was that they knew him now.

TBC continued to haunt his fence, barely giving him more than a flick of its ears to show it noticed his existence. The day Aidan caught himself selecting a piece of cheese to offer it was the day he knew he was perilously close to losing his marbles.

So he ate the cheese himself and decided it was time to give his filing trays a belated spring-clean.

The first thing he picked up was the piece of paper Scott had given him. He unfolded it. All it had on it was the name of the Henge Shop in the High Street and two titles and authors: 'Peruvian Earth Mysteries' by Felipe Hermanes and 'Arenas of Conflict' by Jodi Guildenstern. The latter book was one of the two he'd found on Google. 

It didn't take the brain of a super-sleuth to get the message.

Aidan glanced out of the window. The clematis had taken quite a battering in the storm of a few nights ago, but had fully recovered and seemed to be attempting to turn itself into an exterior screen. Through the filter of green and blue he could see that the sun was shining in a clear sky. It was about time he took a walk and stretched his legs. He had to go to the General Store anyhow, he was down to his last Newcastle Brown. That being so, he may as well browse around the Henge Shop.

Ellie was going into the Red Lion as he passed by and she waved to him. "Come for lunch!" she called. "Fresh salmon baked with olives, served with a Greek salad."

He waved back. "Sounds good!" he yelled back. And it did. He might let himself be tempted.

As expected, both books were on the shelves of the Henge Shop. The illustrations in the Peruvian one were impressive: atmospheric, moody, titanic walls and idols losing the battle with the living jungle.... The contrast of the obdurate stone and the soft fleshiness of the conquering vegetation was striking. Yes, the bloody man had talent, right enough. Aidan put the book back and picked up 'Arenas'.

This was markedly different: one woman's account of two years covering the conflicts in Africa and Sri Lanka, and Scott's photographs were fitting accompaniments to the text. They were gut-wrenching and telling and part of Aidan was in awe, while another part of him was furious that the man was risking his neck--again--in a high-profile venue when he should be practising to be invisible. Yet a third part was quietly acknowledging that these stories needed to be told and one picture was worth a thousand words. It was a cliché, but that didn't mean it was wrong.

Aidan bought the book and took it home.

###

It was gone midnight when Aidan finished 'Arenas of Conflict'. He sat for a while in the comfortable arm chair by the fireplace and stared sightlessly at the empty hearth, the closed book heavy on his thighs. Photos and text were as compelling as they'd promised to be in that brief page-riffling in the shop. They were unsettling, demanding more than mere attention: they caught the reader by the throat and dragged him into the scene so that the death-stench and bitter futility of hate was almost more than flesh and blood could stand. The online review he'd found was right. Scott had a talent that would take him far.

Aidan stared at the book morosely and considered shredding it. Mrs Hamilton could use it as filling for That Bloody Cat's litter tray. He wished he'd never seen the thing, never knew what depth of expertise Graham Scott had revealed, because--

Aidan swore and stood up, found a slight gap on a shelf in his bookcase and forced 'Arenas' into it.

Because Scott would not be staying in this quiet, redolent-with-peace village for a year. It could not hold him. He was too vibrant, too restive, too _alive_.... In the past the man had chosen big bustling cities for his permanent-as-any-place-gets homes, not a pinprick on a map with barely six hundred inhabitants. He'd be lucky if Scott stayed a month. Which was a good thing, since he did not want him to stay at all.

Lightning drew jagged lines across the night sky, flaring its swift light into his room, and Aidan winced.

That night he dreamed of horses. White horses. They were not comfortable dreams.

###

It was a moment of deja vu. A car door slammed and the nails-on-glass frisson along his nerves brought Aidan out of his chair, his breakfast forgotten. He reached automatically for his cane and dived for the door, jerked it open and strolled casually outside.

"Oh," he said, startled. "You're back. Good. You can take That Bloody Cat off my fence for a start."

"What cat?" Scott gazed blearily around.

Naturally the daemon was nowhere in sight. "The one that's been giving a feline imitation of Banquo's ghost!" Aidan snapped. "It's been haunting the place since you went. It's pathetic. Hopefully it'll give me some peace now." He squinted at the unshaven, heavy-eyed human bane in front of him. "Bloody hell, you look rough. What have you been doing?" Visions of glittering blades jarred into his mind and he scowled.

"Taking pictures." Scott didn't bother to smother his yawn. "Got some great ones during the thunderstorms."

"Wow, how interesting." Aidan raked his gaze up and down the scruffy and probably odorous body. His clothes looked as if they'd been drenched and allowed to dry in situ. "You look like a train wreck," he said accusingly. "You'd better come in and have some coffee. It'll be hot, at least." And probably stewed, but who the hell cared? He didn't. "Take your boots off outside."

"Yes, mum," Scott grinned. He mumbled something else, the words all but lost in another cavernous yawn.

"For God's sake, hurry up," Aidan said quickly, spotting a ginger and white anarchist loping down the road towards them.

"What the--oh, it's the Magyar! Hey, puss, did you miss m--"

Aidan grabbed him by a damp shoulder and dragged him inside, shutting the door as the cat hopped up onto the fence. "Stay on the doormat until you've got rid of those mud-collectors you call footwear," he ordered. "I'm not having you tracking God-knows-what across my floor."

He ignored the sniggering repeat of "Yes, mum," and marched angrily into the kitchen. By the time he came back with a steaming mug of freshly made strong, sweet coffee, Scott had abandoned hiking boots and socks on the mat, had taken over his chair at the dining table and was eyeing up the remnants of his breakfast. Since he'd only taken a couple of mouthfuls of bacon and mushroom, the remains were considerable.

"You," Aidan snarled, "are the living embodiment of a barbarian horde! You're worse than That Bloody Cat! Go on, then, finish it up." Scott had already started in on the sausages and he moaned what was probably meant to be a 'thank you' around a mouthful. "Seeing a man about a horse, you said," Aidan went on.

Scott nodded. "Alton Barnes," he mumbled. "Cherhill, Westbury, then Uffington. White horses."

Those kind of horses. Figures cut into the chalk bedrock anything up to three hundred years ago. Apart from the Uffington one, and that needed another zero on the end.

"There is a school of thought," Aidan said stiffly, "that claims the Uffington horse is a dragon."

"Bullshit. She's a mare." Scott sliced the egg and the yolk oozed out, yellow as buttercups. "Anybody can see that. She is something special."

"Naturally. I take it you did read up on her before you went flying off?"

"Naturally." He mimicked Aidan's snideness perfectly, but softened it with a scapegrace grin. "Any chance of some more coffee?"

"Probably," he said, reaching across to acquire a slice of bacon before it was speared on Scott's fork and engulfed.

"Did you have anything to do with cutting her out?"

"No." Aidan retreated to the kitchen and the cafétière of best Blue Mountain. "Three thousand years ago I was otherwise involved."

There was a brief silence. Then, "Yes. Of course. Sorry." There were strange undertones to his voice and it took a moment for Aidan to identify them: sorrow, wistfulness.

"Let it go," Aidan said forcefully. "The past is exactly that. The present and the future are all you need to concern yourself with."

"I know." Scott sat back from the now empty plate, looking as if he wished he hadn't eaten. "That's why I'm--" He stood up suddenly, a grim set to his mouth. "Thanks for the breakfast. I owe you one."

Aidan leaned against the kitchen doorframe, the cafétière in his hand, and watched him leave, barefoot and with his boots and socks in one hand.

"You're welcome," he said quietly to the closing door.

Uffington White Horse [photo by Dave Price]

_What the hell was Scott playing at?_ The conundrum teased at the edges of Aidan's concentration all through the reading of his emails. Not even the request from his editor for a piece on the older Persian poetry traditions could entirely banish it. Not that he thought Scott was deliberately playing any kind of game within the strict meaning of the word. But he had to have a purpose for being in Avebury, other than needing a place to stay while he completed the calendar shoot. He had as good as admitted it was no accident he was next door.

Why?

It wasn't the first time the question had bounced around in his skull. That corn-fed cliché from Casablanca reared its head and not in a good way. Why _his_ village? They'd been good friends, off and on. There was no reason that he could see as to why--unless--

Aidan frowned and turned to his computer.

The database that should have been barred to him, but wasn't, didn't do much to enlighten him. Once again he checked every one of their mutual friends and they were all still standing, heads on shoulders, precisely where they should be. So it wasn't simple loneliness. Though that could be a major factor in its own right, he acknowledged, and none knew that better than him. Scott was a gregarious soul, after all, and liked to have one or more friend close by, and he hadn't taken a long-term lover since that doctor--

Something tightened in Aidan's belly. Maybe that was it. After all, the Society had lost track of Scott over three years ago. A lover they knew nothing about had died or dumped him and he just needed to be around someone who wouldn't give him sickly-sweet sympathy.

Well, Aidan could do that, no problem. He'd invite him round for the odd meal, challenge him to darts matches at the Red Lion. Be sociable.

Satisfied that he was close to solving the Scott enigma, Aidan turned to research of another kind.

###

Noon, and Aidan had had enough of sitting indoors. He collected a beer from the kitchen and strolled out into the tranquillity of his back garden. The grass had lost the new-mown smell, but the scent of roses more than made up for it. The rambler that was contesting ownership of the potting shed was turning out to have blooms of a deep pink, and its heavy perfume was intoxicating.

Even after so very many years, it never failed to entrance Aidan how much difference a few bouts of rain and sun could have on vegetation, and this small piece of real estate was no exception.

He sprawled on the bench and stretched out his legs, bottle resting comfortably on his belly. Lulled by bee-drone and birdsong, his eyes began to close. Life was good, all was well with his world and not even the background dissonance of Scott's presence could mar his contentment.

Aidan revised that thought when a questioning * _mrouw?*_ broke into his reverie. He raised his eyelids to half-mast and peered around. That Bloody Cat was nowhere in sight. The * _mrouw*_ came again, followed by a chirruping whir, and it emanated from the other side of the hedge. A male voice answered in an indistinguishable mutter, then sighed into silence.

Intrigued, Aidan got to his feet and walked soundlessly to the gate between the two gardens. He could see nothing past the thickness of the hedge, so he carefully eased it open.

He hadn't paid much attention to his neighbour's garden when he'd passed through to have an omelette for lunch. Now he gazed around at a lawn and flowerbeds much the same as his own. There was even an apple tree and a potting shed, but no pergola. Instead a white lilac tree sheltered the bench, and lying on it with his head cushioned on a rolled-up shirt, was Scott. That Bloody Cat was sitting on a nearby tree-stump that doubled as a side table, judging by the mug beside the furred bum. The animal gave Aidan the evil eye as he drew nearer, and he paused less than a step away.

Then he forgot his bête noire as awareness of his surroundings faded. There was only Graham Scott. He must have showered and changed, because the jeans he was wearing were not the ones he'd come home in. Other than that, all he wore was a suntan and body-hair. And small white blossoms that drifted down from the branches above and ornamented him like flakes of fragrant pearl.

Aidan had always known Scott was beautiful. He'd often taken an aesthetic delight in watching the man perform the katas that were as much meditation as honing an already splendid physique and lightning reflexes. At those times Scott was, in Aidan's opinion, the perfect representation of the dichotomy of life and death. Now he was merely a man, sleeping, one arm resting across his belly, the other trailing down, fingers curled in the grass. His dark hair looked as if it had been towelled but not combed, and it tangled around his face and ears. His lashes lay as if thickened with kohl below the down-swept curve of his eyebrows, and his slightly parted lips were both vulnerable and sensual in their fullness. It took the shadowing of his beard stubble to nullify the close-to-androgynous aspect of his features.

There was no duality in his body. Graham Scott was a hymn to masculinity. Strength and grace lay in every relaxed muscle, every bone and tendon beneath the clear olive-tanned skin. He was glossy with sweat and the dappled sunlight gleamed on the black crispness that dusted his pectorals.

With medieval Persian still floating around in his head, Aidan smiled. " _Ghulam,_ " he whispered under his breath, though this was no youth but a man in his prime, poised for the rest of his life at that peak of excellence. Not all of their kind was so lucky.

A tiny four-petaled flower fell, landing on the corner of Scott's mouth, its touch too light to rouse the sleeper. Instinctively Aidan carefully brushed it away. His fingertips lingered on the pleat of skin, relishing the contrast between silken lip and stubble, the contact surely no heavier than the lilac. But Scott stirred, his head turning on his makeshift pillow towards the interloper, and his sleeping mouth curved slightly in a smile so achingly tender Aidan thought his heart would break. 

Aidan had always known Scott was beautiful. But that was the cool assessment of the mind. Now he knew it in blood and bone and the heavy throb of his pulse. And he hoped suddenly and with a longing that rocked his foundations that he was the sole reason why Scott had come to Avebury.

What he didn't know was what he, Aidan Whittaker, was going to do about it if his hope was vindicated.

Slowly and with infinite care, Aidan backed towards the gate, the cat watching him every step of the way. He met the inscrutable green gaze and the cat yawned, slowly, showing every tooth in its evil head. Then it did what it seemed to do whenever it had Aidan's attention: it stuck a back leg in the air and pointedly washed its balls.

###

Aidan stared at his computer screen and did not see it. The sleeping man beneath the lilac tree filled his thoughts. So did the growing doubts. He sighed. It had been a small epiphany as these things went, but an uncomfortable one. It was not a shock for Aidan to acknowledge that he found Scott sexually attractive. It was not, after all, the first time he'd found himself aroused in Scott's presence.

Nor was it much of a surprise to imagine that Scott might feel the same way about him. The key word being _might._ True, their past had held some moments when a word or a glance _might_ have brought them closer, when passion was a single step away, when the laughter and teasing _might_ have had an undercurrent of desire.

But that was then and this was now, and Scott had neither said nor done anything that could be interpreted as a hint that he wanted a sexual liaison rather than a joking flirtation that would never go anywhere.

The conviction grew that he was making something out of nothing. Scott hadn't turned towards _him_ , per se. He was deeply asleep and sensed the non-threatening presence of a friend. That was all there was to it.

Scowling, Aidan re-examined his original theory. The book's later chapters had been about last year's upsurge of violence by the Tamil Tigers in Sri Lanka, so it was not so very long ago that Scott and the author had been risking life and limb researching and illustrating it. And going by her writing, Jodi Guildenstern was as driven as Scott. A good match, then, and if that relationship had gone down the drain, he could understand why Scott would be looking for a sanctuary of sorts while he got his head and heart back together.

Not that he had shown any sign of retreating from an affair that had ended badly.

Aidan was the one who had to retreat and regroup. And sooner or later he'd have to reassess exactly what the maniac in the next garden meant to him.

Later.

Much later.

Irritably, he turned off the computer and stood up, stretching. He needed a stiff drink and cheerful, undemanding company and he'd find both at the pub. He also needed to get away from that distracting mental scrape that was an ever-present reminder of Scott's presence while they were in each other's vicinity. The cottages were too small for them to be out of each other's range and right now he needed to be at a safe distance.

###

Ellie was carrying plates of sandwiches to the Brothers Walker when Aidan limped in and sat in his corner with a beer. She detoured towards him on her way back to the kitchen.

"You look like a wet weekend," she said, standing over him with hands on hips. "And you missed the salmon yesterday."

"Sorry about that," Aidan said with genuine regret. "Something came up, and I couldn't get away." He didn't think it would do much to appease her if he said he'd got his head stuck in a book and lost track of time.

Ellie sniffed. "Leg troubling you again?" It was more of an accusation than a question and she didn't wait for an answer. "The salmon went like hot cakes and them as missed out asked me to make it again today. So it's back on the menu if you're interested."

"Tom said, and I'm interested." He offered her his smile and her expression underwent a kind of melting grimace of exasperation. "Thanks, Ellie."

"Huh. What about your friend? Is he likely to show up?"

"No idea. He's back, but that's all I know."

"Huh," she said again. "He's another one who doesn't know what regular mealtimes mean."

"Well, he's got assignments, I suppose," he said with a shrug.

"Yes. Gallivanting about the countryside at all hours and in all weathers frightening the bloody sheep!"

Aidan didn't bother to smother his snigger. "It's a tough job," he said solemnly, "but someone's got to do it."

"Idiots, the pair of you," she said. "My eldest boy is a chiropractor in Swindon. Go and see him. He's good." She fished an old envelope out of her coverall pocket and slammed it in front of him. "Tell Frank I sent you," she added and stalked back to her domain.

Aidan pocketed the envelope and slouched back in his chair. He was trapped in the limbo of waiting for his meal and he could either go and chat to Tom or--Aidan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The image of Scott sleeping half-naked in the patchwork shade wouldn't leave him and he knew that from now on, no matter where he went in the world, the scents of lilac, roses or lavender would always invoke it.

He was fooling himself, Aidan decided. Yet when Scott was near, that constant abrasion felt--reassuring wasn't the word and neither was comforting-- _right_ was the nearest thing Aidan could come up with. Which was ridiculous given a) his own undoubted skill with words and b) Scott's propensity to attract unwelcome attention.

All right. Admit that he wanted the man and decide what he was going to do about it--come to think of it, an unwelcome proposition would be a bloody good way of getting Scott out of his hair and out of Avebury. Which would be a little unfair if he was here to get over a broken relationship, but Aidan wasn't a marriage guidance counsellor, for God's sake, and to hell with being sociable. And if Scott took him up on it, then his itch would get scratched, and....

And that would be the end of it.

Or rather, it would be if the other part of this equation wasn't Graham Scott.

Scott's gender wasn't the problem. If there was such a thing as an all-encompassing encyclopaedia of sexual practices (of which the Kama Sutra would be but a chapter) it would be safe to assume that in the course of his long life Aidan had thoroughly explored every single one. Often more than once. Nor was it beyond the realm of possibility that Scott, despite his comparative youth, had done something similar, if not to the same extent. After all, if sensuality was an Olympic event, the man was a natural gold medallist.

No, the stumbling block was something much greater than mere sexual gratification, or even the bittersweet oasis of love.

It was the 'C' word and Scott lived by it.

Not that Aidan was a stranger to it. Commitment was easily and readily given when the one he loved was likely to have only the usual three-score-and-ten, or as in one notable heart-rending case in his not so distant past, a matter of months. It was like, said that blackly cynical alter ego of his, Mrs. Hamilton taking on That Bloody Cat. You brought them into your heart and home and loved them, kept them safe and happy and content, knowing that in a comparatively short space of time, barring accident or illness, they would grow old and die. It was all part of the package deal and you went into it knowing the score.

But to give that commitment to one of his own kind--that was so very different. To know that forever was indeed an option rather than only flowery sentiment, and yet it could be ended in seconds by the sweep of a sword or the fall of an axe. No middle ground. So for years, centuries, millennia, Aidan had taken unto himself only mortals for wives and long-term lovers, keeping his deadly kin for friendship and casual affairs. But now....

Now there was a stubborn idiot with the overdeveloped concept of honour and the chivalry of a hyperactive boy scout. Now there was a fool who truly believed he could make a difference in the world. Aidan glared at his pint, remembering 'Arenas of Conflict'. Could and probably would.

If just one person got off their arse and did something because that book and its pictures had galvanised them into action, then that was all the justification needed. And Scott would spend the rest of his life having the occasional foray at windmills, championing lost causes, being the eternal optimist and believing in the ultimate goodness of the human heart.

Aidan gave a snort of sardonic laughter. Poor deluded bastard. But someone had to do it, he acknowledged reluctantly. And someone would need a safe haven to come home to, somewhere to heal the inner wounds that stayed long after mere flesh had repaired itself and, maybe, a shoulder to lean on for a while.

Where better than Avebury in its sacred circle? Who better than him?

"Sod it," Aidan snarled. He was becoming positively maudlin. If that was what Scott was doing to him, he’d better run like hell in the opposite direction before his brain turned entirely to mush and dribbled out of his ears. The bloody man had no business invading his life-- Ellie put a platter of food in front of him and the aroma was an effective distraction. Even so, he ate slowly, in part to savour the truly excellent meal, but also because Scott would not stay out of his head.

Everything circled back to Scott's reasons for being here. Aidan still favoured the Jodi Guildenstern angle, mainly because he did not want to look too closely into his own irrational impulse.

Perhaps it would be best if he just wrote off the brief episode as an aberration brought on by too much sun and celibacy and forget it had ever happened.

Confident in his resolve, Aidan returned to his computer and picked up the thread of his research again. It was unfortunate that a fair amount of the poetry he was studying was homoerotic in nature.

###

He was disturbed by someone knocking on a door. Not his door. It was an insistent bang-bang-bang as if whoever was perpetrating it got more pleasure out of the noise than was decent. Aidan was about to open his window and request a bit of peace and quiet when a voice was raised as well. It was female and stressed.

"Barry, don't do that! Stop it. That's enough. Barry, that's enough! _Barry!_ " The knocking stopped and a child began to howl. Dull thuds sounded, as of small trainers impacting on wood. "Barry!"

"Want to!"

"Barry, you mustn't!" Then the door of Number Two must have opened. By this time, Aidan was unashamedly eavesdropping. "Oh, um, Mr. Scott?" she said over the shrieks from the brat. "Um, hi, I'm Jane Elliott--Lucy from the shop's sister?"

"Hi, Jane," came Scott's deeper, velvety tones. "What can I do for you?"

 _Now, there was an opening line,_ Aidan thought. _Let me count the ways...._

"I, er, don't know if Lucy has said anything to--ow! Barry, that's enough!"

"Want to!"

"Lucy told me you're a photographer, and I, um, was wondering if--Barry, stop it! Don't kick the flowers!"

"How old is he?" Scot asked politely.

"Four--" she began.

"Nearly five," Barry piped in. "I'm gonna go to school soon and kick things."

"You need to be careful, then," Scott said.

"Don't have to! Why?"

"Because some things kick back. Now try counting up to ten while I talk to your mum."

"Don't want to!"

"Yes, I'm a photographer," Scott went on, ignoring the child.

"Well, I'm getting married next month, and we haven't been able to find anyone to take the wedding pictures, and I was wondering if you--ow! Barry, that really hurt! You mustn't kick! Do you do weddings, Mr. Scott?"

"I've been known to," Scott said and Aidan could hear the smile in his voice. "Call me Gray, please. When is it?" The brat was unaccountably silent.

"The 27th, here at St. James's church."

"What's that?" Barry demanded.

"A stone," Scott answered. "It's very old and magical."

"I want it."

"Can't have it."

"I'll kick you!"

"Then you certainly can't have the other magic stone I've got indoors. The 27th should be fine, Jane. Tell you what, give me your address and I'll come round this evening. We can talk about what pictures you want then, and how many, okay?"

"Want the stone!"

"Hey, Barry, I'll do a deal with you. If your mum tells me you've been good from now until I call round, I'll give you this magic stone. Deal?"

"Deal."

"That means no kicking and no shouting."

"Yeah."

Jane's sigh of relief was clearly audible, even through the closed window. "That's great, Gray. Thank you--but I, um, we can't afford much."

"I'm sure we can sort something out," Scott chuckled. "Barry, don't do that."

"It's a cat."

"Yes, and he won't like it if you grab--" There was a feline screech and an equally piercing yowl from the child.

 _Yes!_ Aidan rejoiced. _There is a God!_

"Sorry about that," Scott said, sounding not at all regretful.

"No, no, it's his own fault," Jane said wearily. Barry's howls were enough to rattle the windows. "It's only a scratch. I suppose it's the best way for kids to learn."

"Tough on the cats, though. I'll come round at about seven?"

"That's great. I'll try to get Barry into bed by then. Thanks a lot, Gray."

"You're welcome."

The sounds of juvenile lamentations gradually lessened as Barry was led away, but Scott didn't go back inside. Instead he obviously decided that the wounded dignity of TBC needed sympathetic attention. "Poor old warrior," he crooned. "You gave the little monster a good'un, though."

Aidan opened his window and leaned out. "Magic stone?" he drawled. By the look of him, Scott had just come in from the garden. He was still sleep-tousled and shirtless. No wonder Jane had been tongue-tied. TBC was cradled in his arms, its tail lashing angrily. It flattened its ears at Aidan, a low growl grating in its throat.

"A piece of flint with a crystalline flaw. Found it at Westbury." He held it up and rolled it around his fingers like a stage magician, somehow without dropping the cat in the process. “It’s good for distracting brats.”

"Oh. Is it okay?"

"What?"

"It. That Bloody Cat."

"Oh, sure. Just lost a bit of fur and some dignity. Don't suppose you've got some milk I could borrow, have you? I meant to go to the shop but I dozed off."

"I should think so. Come on in, but leave that outside."

"Do I have to?" Scott all but pouted. "He is housetrained."

"Stop whining. You sound like that bloody brat." Scott sighed and put the cat down. It immediately began an intense grooming session, apparently designed to remove all taint of miniature homo sapiens from its fur. "You're a fool for encouraging it," Aidan went on as he opened the door to let Scott in. Thankfully, the cat was too busy to attempt an entry.

"I like him. He's got character."

"That's not the word I'd choose to describe it."

"You should give him a chance, he really likes you."

"Bullshit. It is a fiend from Hell. So you're going into the wedding trade now?"

"Thought I may as well. Did you see her? She's a pretty girl, though if the poisonous dwarf's going to be there, her day could well be ruined. That's assuming it's hers and not one she's taking care of. Got a face like a pug. Which is a good thing for a pug but unfortunate for a human." Scott must have thought he'd said enough, because his mouth clamped shut and he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I had a look at those books you recommended," Aidan said into the slightly awkward silence. "They're not bad." Then, "Jodi Guildenstern can certainly write."

Scott's face brightened. "Yeah, can she ever. Jodi's Pulitzer Prize material. About four years ago she did one on the Chechen rebellions and before that, she wrote an incredible book on the Serbo-Croat conflicts. This one's better."

There was no reluctance to mention her name, just a warm pride in a friend's success.

"Is she likely to drop in to say hi," he asked casually.

"Hell, no." Scott chuckled. "She's on promotional tours at the moment, advertising the book and trying to get the UN moving. It's like pushing an elephant up-hill on a greased slope. But she likes taking on the big guys. I've done my bit with the pictures."

"So what's your next project going to be?"

"After from the calendar and Jane's wedding? Thought I'd take a look at North Korea."

"Shit." Aidan stared at him in consternation. "You're mad," he said. "Do you have a death wish?"

"No. I've got this ambition to find out what it's like to be five thousand years old...."

"And you'll manage that by taking happy holiday snaps in North bloody Korea?" Aidan demanded indignantly. "I'd like to be there with you, celebrating your five K birthday, but if you're planning on hitting all the major trouble-spots on the planet, there isn't a snowball in Hell's chance of you being alive for it to happen!"

"Would you?" Scott asked, voice quiet and expressionless.

"Would I what?"

"Be there, with me, in five thousand years' time?"

Everything locked down. Aidan's heart, his throat, his lungs, and he could only stare, slack-jawed. Was Scott saying what he thought he was saying?

"Ideally," Scott went on quickly, too quickly, and his laughter sounded forced, "Joe would be there as well, and Amanda, Connor and Darius, Richie, Fitz--"

A fantasy, then. Most of those named were already dead. Pain and anger struck through Aidan. "Shut the fuck up," he snarled. "Get out."

Scott left. Without the milk.

Aidan slumped into the nearest arm chair and dug the heels of his palms into his eye-sockets. He replayed the scene in his head: Scott's sudden defensiveness, the uncharacteristically clumsy attempt at humour, and the lack of response to his summary eviction, an eviction that could so easily be read as rejection.

If he meant what Aidan thought (hoped) he meant.

"Shit," he whispered. "Shitshitshit...."

He sat there for a long time, unmoving, until instinct told him it was nearing seven o'clock. Then he straightened, a grim set to his mouth, and stalked to the door. He jerked it open just as Scott left his cottage and opened the gate.

"I'll make a deal with you," Aidan said, voice as controlled as he could make it. "I'll be there on the condition that you come back here, to Avebury, after North Korea, and after every other death-trap you walk into.” _Come to me no matter where I am in the world...._ But he couldn’t say it aloud. “Deal?"

"Deal," Scott said gruffly and carried on up Green Street.

Aidan watched until he was out of sight and it wasn't until he closed the door that he realised That Bloody Cat had strolled in and made itself at home. It was sitting in front of the empty fireplace like a tea-cosy, paws tucked away, but there was nothing relaxed about it. Its tail was a loose curve on the rug, the tip twitching.

"Get--" he started, but stopped abruptly. It was what he'd said to Scott, words he'd call back if he could, make it so they had never been spoken between them.

Somehow he had to find a way to regain their common ground. Because although Scott had agreed to the deal, it didn't mean he'd heard the sub-text. Damn it, there didn't need to be a sub-text! They were grown men, for God's sake, their combined age longer than recorded history.

Restless and unsettled, Aidan poured himself a large brandy, picked up his cane and the Cherryh paperback he'd been planning on rereading for the umpteenth time, and took them out to his garden. He left the back door ajar, so his invader could leave on its own terms. This once.

###

Dusk came slowly, intensifying the perfume of the flowers. TBC sloped out of the cottage and disappeared through the hedge. It was going to terrorize the local wildlife, Aidan surmised. He thought he ought to get off his arse and see if the daemon had sprayed his furniture again, but he was too comfortable lounging beneath the pergola.

There wasn't enough light for him to read by now and he closed the book with a sigh. It had been a while since he'd last opened 'The Faded Sun' trilogy and, while he hadn't forgotten it exactly, he'd been wryly amused to rediscover that the main human character was named Duncan. A stubborn human was that Duncan. A man with a deeply engrained code of ethics, who reinvented himself to become part of an alien culture whose concept of honour was even more rigorous than his own.

Aidan smiled to himself. He could see Graham Scott in the black outfit of the mri warrior-caste, weaponed and with lethal grace-- The familiar chafing assaulted his nerves and he sat up, reaching for his walking stick. It was probably only Scott coming home, but Aidan never assumed anything when it came to possibly unwelcome visitors.

A light came on in Number Two and it flooded out into the garden as the back door opened.

"Hi, Magyar," Scott said, and a * _mrouw*_ answered him. Aidan relaxed and let his walking stick drop back against the bench. It made only a small noise, but suddenly Scott was silhouetted in the gate-arch.

"Aidan?" he said. He sounded wary and that hurt. "Have you got a minute? About the deal we made. Can we discuss the small print?"

Something tightened under Aidan's breastbone. It occurred to him that it might be hope. He came smoothly to his feet and walked to the gate. "Sure," he said and opened it, stepping back to swing it wide and gesture Scott across the threshold. " _Mi jardín es tu jardín_ ," he added on impulse. He thought Scott drew in a deeper breath at that, but couldn't be sure. Silent as a shadow, Scott moved past him. Aidan left the gate open, giving him an avenue of retreat, just in case. "The small print?" he prompted.

"Yeah. It's your deal, so what's in it?"

"Whatever you want there to be," Aidan said with as much casualness as he could scrape together.

"Will you stop playing word-games!" Scott snapped and for the first time there was a hint of an accent in his voice, a burr to the 'r' that came from a lot further north than Wiltshire.

"All right." Aidan decided to take a chance. One swift step forward brought him chest to chest with Scott, then he tilted his head to one side to avoid that embarrassing nose-clash, and kissed him.

He'd intended it to be just a kiss. A chaste suggestion as to what could be on offer if Scott wanted more. Instead all his barriers were breached in a surge of complex emotions so intense he could not retain a rational thought as Scott responded with whole-hearted enthusiasm. There was completion in that kiss: joy and desire and a sense of coming home, a profound and abiding love and the awareness that he would never be alone again, not while this man lived. And above all, there was the certain knowledge that everything he felt was shared.

Aidan deepened the kiss and their tongues met, searching, tasting, and Scott's arms were around him, pressing him so close he could feel the leaping thuds of the man's heartbeat. Or maybe it was his own and they were in sync.

In sync. Yes. That was right and proper. So, too, were the hands that were burrowing under his shirt to find skin. He was doing some seeking of his own and he was rewarded by the smooth glide of muscles under his palms as Scot tightened his embrace. It had been a long time since he had been held with such strength and confidence and, when their mouths parted to allow them to breathe, Aidan began to laugh.

"What?" Scott demanded, lips working at the side of his throat.

"Why did you come to Avebury?" he asked.

"For you," Scott said, as Aidan had known he would. "I was going to take it slowly, kind of ease into your life...."

"Yes," Aidan said. "Come to bed."

###

A new day and a new beginning. Heavy-eyed and weary, the smirk on his face feeling as if it was a permanent fixture, Aidan opened his back door and stretched. He ached a little in interesting places and he didn't need to check in a mirror to know that there was a necklace of love-bites along both collar-bones.

They would fade swiftly enough, but in every way that counted they would always be there. He'd put similar brands on Scott's more than willing body last night and this morning. They'd talked as well as made love, and Aidan's smirk became a grin as he reviewed the last few hours.

_“You know,” Aidan said drowsily, “you were bloody lucky to get that cottage next door." There was a long silence and he squinted down at the dark head pillowed on his chest. “Is there something you want to tell me?” he demanded ominously, though his fingers continued to walk gentle paths up and down Scott’s spine._

_“Diana Trimm,” he murmured, flicking his tongue over Aidan’s right nipple. “I resettled her.”_

_“_ What?” _He was outraged, but not enough to move away._

_“I bought a gift shop in Marlborough. It’s got a flat above it. She runs it for me. Omega likes to takes people on personal recommendation, so I got her to recommend me.”_

_“You conniving bastard!” Aidan gasped. It didn’t come out as forcefully as he would have liked because Scott chose that moment to add a hint of teeth to the tender suckling he was currently inflicting on Aidan’s breast._

_“I wanted to be close to you,” Scott said, coming up for air. “I still do. I want us to be together for a very long time. Not in each other’s pockets--we’d drive each other crazy. Do you want that as well?”_

_“Yes,” Aidan whispered. “I do.”_

_Scott chuckled. “That’s good. You are the most important person in my life and you always will be.” He raised his head, his mouth sensual and slightly swollen. His eyes were dark as the night and fathomless. “You always have been, from the moment I saw you. Do you think Omega would sell me Number Two?"_

_"Not a chance,” Aidan managed, breathless._

_"How about a long-term let?"_

_"That could be arranged. How long?"_

_"Oh, I was thinking maybe a thousand years or so, with an option for indefinite renewal."_

_"Now that is a definite possibility_...."

The best of both worlds, for both of them--their own space, freedom to come and go as whim or requirement took them, and at the core of their being was the unity that would always be within reach. Like the gate between the two gardens that symbolised their joint needs to be together and separate. It was all there, implicit between them, and it didn't have to be put into words, though Scott had come close.

_"When do you go to North Korea?" Aidan asked._

_"North--? Never heard of it," Scott answered, and kissed him with gentle voraciousness._

Aidan chuckled quietly. Then his gaze focussed on the pergola and the book on the bench. He could see the dew glistening on the cover. His walking stick was there as well, silently accusing him of gross negligence.

"Damn," he said and started forward. And froze. His bare foot was resting on something small and cold and cushiony. It didn't move. Luckily his full weight hadn't come down on the thing and it only took a second for him to identify the object. He jumped back, cannoning into Scott, who immediately wrapped both arms around his waist and nuzzled his neck.

Aidan barely noticed. In front of him on the doormat were two bodies--large rats on their backs with pink paws in the air, and That Bloody Cat was sauntering up as if it owned the sodding world.

"Aaah," Scott sighed idiotically. "He's brought you a present! I told you he likes you."

White Lilac [photo from Pixabay.com]

~~~End~~~


End file.
